Threads: A Thriller

by T. R. Ultra

  Chapter 18

  I opened my eyes. The guard left his position under the door frame and sat on a stool in the corner of the room, Fátima was back at her work, cleansing, patching, and dressing Renato’s injuries. He seemed wretched and drowsy, probably under the effects of some tropical medicine.

  Renato was alive. His injuries had been reopened and he had lost some blood, but he breathed.

  A new pain settled in my body, a headache caused by the torture I had witnessed. I felt my tongue numb, my throat dry, but I didn’t dare make a sound, uncertain of what kind of reaction might come toward me.

  Fátima’s aide, a younger lady with coiled hair that helped me a couple days ago, kneeled down to scrub the floor, but the coarse surface made it difficult to wipe off the blood stains. Streams of sweat slid down her arms. Good thing the black and red striped torturer was not inside the room anymore, but his companion, made up for his partner’s absence by devouring me with hateful eyes.

  A television had been brought into the room. It was a small tube TV with wheezing speakers and a screen lacking magenta hues, which made all pictures look either bluish or greenish.

  To escape his stare, I eyed the TV. I could see the screen from my bed. I captured the cold colors of its images, yet my mind saw the drug soldier at the corner of the room clenching his teeth, shaking his legs. He was an excited devil lurking in plain sight.

  The aide left the clinic, carrying with her a bucket full of bloody water. Fátima, after dressing Renato’s wounds, went after her. Neither of them spared me a glance on their way out. Probably worried about how our exchanging of looks might be interpreted by the man on the stool.

  They left the door open. I swallowed hard. Renato stirred in his bed, entangled by delusions caused either from the fever or drugs.

  I was left alone with the drug soldier.

  My eyes anchored to the door, I focused my attention on the corners of my vision. Every move, every shake, every twist from the man on the stool was analyzed by my hyper-aware nerves.

  The guard pointed at the TV, said something, and pointed back at me, I noticed his moves, but was unable to see why he smirked. On the screen, a show that resembled the news droned on, a man in a black suit spoke, and a picture of a woman displayed.

  It was my face.

  One of my best selfies. Blue gown, heart pendant on my collar—I looked gorgeous. I had taken that photo before gulping down a truckload of margaritas, free of charge, made available at the Johnson & Brothers Co.’s holiday party last year. I looked joyful, tender, and still unaware of Marlon cheating on me.

  What had my life been reduced to? Getting to know that someone was, at last, looking for me, was reassuring. But having my face exposed on TV is much different than actually having the police form squads and rummage the city in search of me.

  My face was plastered on the news. I watched the man on the stool walk past the TV and push the door bolt to lock it.

  Startled, my muscles tightened and my breathing came in short bursts. After locking the door, he walked toward me, that filthy smirk still on his face. He knelt by my side, a waft of stench made me nauseas. Rifle in one hand, he ran the other over my belly. I tried to squirm away.

  He chuckled, as only an experienced rapist would. He propped his rifle against the bed to his right. Then he took off his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, and dropped his pistol on the ground.

  I looked to the ceiling, trying to shelter myself behind a barricade of memories. He bent over me, pushed my shirt up, and squeezed my breasts. I wanted to cry and shout and bellow. But shut my eyes and remained silent. He was a beast that wasn’t worth even a glimpse. He could enter my body, but he would never roam inside the beauty of my mind.

  When his rough hand cupped my pussy, underneath my pants, I heard those sounds again. Gunshots. First one, then a burst, then another, all coming from Gloria Santa’s inner walls.

  Fireworks were set off seconds later. He pushed himself up, muttering, and zipped up his pants. He fumbled with his belt over the belt loops, missing every time. When another round of fireworks exploded over the slum, shouts came from outside. He threw his belt at the ground, picked up his rifle, set off for the door in a hustle, and disappeared.

  He forgot to take his pistol. A glock G17, the exact same model I had tested on a stand in Berlin two years ago: black tint glistening, safety lock disengaged, and magazine for seventeen bullets fully loaded.

  I raised up, panting. As if I’d held my breath for the whole time that he’d hunched over me. The nape of my neck ached, but the pain had lessened, my body stronger. Whatever Fátima gave me had helped my recovery.

  Right after he scurried out of the clinic, Fátima entered. I shoved my bedsheets to hide the pistol. After noticing I was up, she ran toward Renato and shook him awake.

  When Renato opened his eyes, Fátima unleashed a giant chain of words, shook her hands, waved her arms and pointed at me. Renato nodded, but then, shook his head.

  “What is she saying? What is happening?” I said.

  “Another gunfight...” Renato said, struggling to utter his words out. I looked right into his reddish eyes. “Flávio’s faction is invading the slum. Or maybe it’s the police again. They might come for us.”

  “So we must go now, Renato. We must go.” I said.

  Fátima spoke to me. She took hold of my arms with both of her hands, strong fingers of a laboring woman. She pointed at Renato, shook her hands, then she pointed toward the ground.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t get it,” I said.

  The gunfire outside got louder and closer. I didn’t hear fireworks anymore. In the intervals of gunshots and bursts, people bellowed, kids cried, and footsteps tapped in all directions, on the narrow streets or rooftops.

  Renato didn’t move. Laid out on the bed, struggling to come back to reality. He said, “she´s telling you not to leave, Emily. We must stay together. She´ll protect us.”

  Fátima said something to him and then darted out of the clinic. I tried to understand what was happening, but before I could move toward the door, Renato grabbed at my thighs.

  “This is not the end of the line. We still have a chance. Only... only a few more days...,” he said, a tear trailed down his cheek.

  I looked down at him with a mingle of despair and desire. What did that tear mean? Regret? Pain? Or, maybe love? I couldn’t answer that question now, I concentrated on doing what I thought was right.

  I heard more shouts, a thud on a nearby rooftop, a teenager sprinted past the stairs outside carrying a gun almost his size. I rushed back to my bed, rummaged the bedsheets on the ground and picked up the pistol.

  I loathed guns, but this one I’d bring with me.

  Chapter 19

  “Are you coming with me or not?” I said to Renato.

  The glock was tucked into my jeans. I came closer to Renato, bent over and helped him up.

  He grunted, his skin hot from the fever. Outside, gunshots rang out like a battlefield.

  “I can´t walk. Fátima will hide us before we can move on. You won´t survive outside by yourself,” he stammered.

  “We can´t wait any longer! Flávio Beirario may be invading the slum, as you said. Get up,” I said.

  I tugged at his arm—the uninjured one—and pulled him up. He got to his feet, wobbling.

  “Can you walk?” I asked.

  Renato closed his eyes and gripped my arm at the same moment that Fátima showed up at the door of the clinic. She brought a jug in her hand. After noticing us standing, she froze.

  Renato exchanged words with Fátima. She didn’t reply, but after a quick glance at my hips, she motioned closer to us and gave him the jug.

  “It tastes like piss, but it helps with the pain,” he said.

  “I hope it does,” I said, as we started moving on. I nodded to Fátima when we went past her to leave the clinic. She replied with a baffled expression.

  My idea was to walk abreast of him along the alle
yways to reach the plateau that would take us out of Gloria Santa. Plan which I had to scratch when he got up. Renato was a big man with a great heart, but his reflexes were faulty and half of his body useless from his injuries.

  On my tiptoes, my forearm barely touched his chin, yet I offered my shoulder to help his balance. Renato circled his arm around my back, pressing the gauze on my neck, and a sharp pain made me cringe.

  “This is a bad idea. How ridiculous is it . . . for a woman of your size to carry a man of mine? We should hide somewhere else.”

  Now it was my turn to leave a question unanswered. The gunfire outside had increased, more footsteps and shouts. Part of his weight was held up by my own legs. Then I heard a crash that opened a hole in the wall of the clinic. Sunlight came through it, a shaft of light revealing a world of floating dust.

  Our advancing would be hindered by Renato—I wasn’t in great shape either—but we would advance. Walking outside of the ramshackle clinic would put us at risk of finding a stray bullet, or bumping into another drug soldier, but we had to take that chance.

  We limped our way to the door. I craned my neck outside and saw long, slithering stairs up and down the hillside. An explosion nearby caused my joints to ache, voices of men cursing echoed. When the gunshots paused, and the voices rested, a stifling silence washed over the slum.

  Climbing up the stairs proved to be difficult. Renato struggled at each step. Gunshots returned along with the cries. The stairs we climbed were empty and sullen. Sunlight didn’t reach us, its light squeezed out by the shanty houses perched on top of each other.

  Fátima came with us, but left when we reached a small clearance halfway toward the top. Renato and I went on to a cement slope, winding along the walls of crooked buildings, and then another set of steps adjoining the foundation pillars of a house built even higher. Half-way through it, I heard a different sound--whirring coming from the sky.

  I looked up, dazzled by the clear sky, and caught a glimpse of something flying over the slum. My first reaction was to wave, call for help, to find a way to write SOS on any flat ground in Gloria Santa. But before I could react, Renato tugged at my arm and dragged me under the building beside us.

  “We must not be seen. It’s a police helicopter. They’ll shoot me and arrest you,” he said.

  But, how? Could officers Pinto and Rôla have enough clout to get a god damn helicopter under their control?

  We waited for the whirr to go away, but it didn’t. It hovered over the slum.

  We waited, sprinting footsteps came closer. We crouched behind a heap of bricks and a twisted iron tank, the ceiling four feet above our heads. A man rushed past the stairs, his face pointed upward. He carried a rifle on his shoulders and ran barefoot. Another man trailed behind--the man with a black and red striped t-shirt, with his gun.

  He saw us hiding behind the debris. His eyes widened as he panted for air.

  He stood still, halfway across the steps and swiveling his head contemplating whether to shout to his partner, to take a glance at the helicopter, or to stare at us.

  Renato clutched my forearm, sweating and cold.

  “I wish I could protect you. I’m sorry,” he said.

  The man in black and red stripes slid his finger to reach the trigger, his other hand clutched the grip.

  He raised his rifle, aimed at us.

  I buried my face into Renato’s chest.

  Then I heard a shot.

  Chapter 20

  I raised my head, trembling and shivering. I looked at the stairs where the red and black striped man had stood, but I didn’t see him. A cloud of dust swelled over, a brown fog blurring my sight.

  The helicopter rumbled in the sky. The intensity of its whirr drifted away, soaring high.

  I looked for gunshot holes on my body, fresh blood blemishes on my clothes, nothing. Renato opened his eyes, bloodshot from barely escaping from death, and squeezed his good arm around me as if in gratitude for being alive.

  “He’d have killed us,” Renato stammered, “but snipers on the helicopter caught him. We must keep moving.”

  I helped him up. Once on his feet, Renato seemed steady, stiffer, thanks to Fátima’s herb potion and to the adrenaline pulsing in his veins.

  We waded over debris to leave the makeshift shelter under the building. The body draped in a black and red striped t-shirt laid twisted along the steps, a doubled up knee propped up against an unpainted wall. Fresh blood streamed down the steps, coming from many holes.

  “What did he want from you?” I said, hardly taking in the entirety of what had happened.

  Renato checked outside the shelter, scanning for additional threats, ignoring the dead body.

  “The helicopter is not over us anymore. But we must tread carefully. This man’s partner is still around,” he said.

  I remembered I’d brought a secret tucked in my pants. In the heat of the moment, when the rifle was aimed at us, all senses of reaction vanished. Using weapons was out of the question to me, at least in my regular life. But here, in Gloria Santa, those who didn’t handle a gun might end up dying a coward’s death—without ever posing a threat to their murderer.

  “The other man at the clinic forgot his pistol next to my bed,” I said, then looked down and caught view of the pistol grip poking out. “What did they want from you?”

  Renato insisted on the first subject. “I saw when you picked it up,” he narrowed his eyes and in a single glare grasped the reasons for that handgun to be left by my side. “And I can only imagine why that motherfucker tossed his pistol by your bed. Are you okay?”

  “Nothing happened,” I said. “The fireworks saved me.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Renato said. He turned his head around, scanning the alleyways.

  I sensed an urgency in him.

  “This body belonged to João Cavalo, number two in Gloria Santa’s drug hierarchy. He wanted information. He wanted to know why Flávio Beirario’s faction has been searching for you. And, most of all, why I’ve brought you here.”

  Renato averted his eyes, looked down, as though resentful of the punishment he had to endure. “I lied to him. I told him you were not the American woman Flávio Beirario was looking for. He didn’t believe me. It was a good thing your passport was taken when you were mugged. He . . . ,” Renato pursed his lips and his eyes welled up. “The hardest part was not getting beat, the hardest part was hearing he had entered my grandma’s house, turned it upside down, in search of you.”

  My lips opened, astonished.

  “What? Is she ok?” I muttered, frightened by what his response might be.

  “Grandma remained asleep while they searched every corner of her home, according to Fátima. She was afraid for my grandma too.”

  Violence in that world had no limits. Not even an elderly hunchback woman would have her life spared from the aggression and the wickedness of drug lords.

  Renato wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. I sensed an invisible danger looming around us. Whether it was from the gunshots echoing through the wind, the cries of women, or the splashing of feet and debris on the ground—I didn’t know. We needed to get out of that slum as fast as we could.

  I walked to the staircase, a few steps over from where the body had fallen. Renato came after me, pushing himself up with the help of the wall on the side. He could finally move by himself.

  We climbed the stairs and entered a new pathway between buildings that were three stories high, and from there neither snipers, nor sunrays, could reach us.

  Once we had the protection of the bare brick walls, the din of the war lessened, but the wail of lonely kids and the gnawing of lurking rats increased, reaching my ears with a terrifying clarity.

  Renato guided us through the labyrinth of buildings and alleyways. Uncollected garbage and the stench of rotten food turned my stomach. On our way up, we saw the faces of children, snot dripping from their noses, left alone at home while their parents were off at underpaid jobs.


  I tried to focus my mind, my muscles, on getting past that wretched scene. There was just too much tragedy. Renato’s condition slowed our advance, yet we managed to reached the top of the slope. A plateau appeared, a clearance to the summit of Gloria Santa, the ground compact sand. Two soccer goalposts were placed far apart, and a helicopter had landed in the center. It billowed a constant smoke of dirt into the air.

  The police helicopter were the bullets that killed João Guilherme came from.

  A suit-and-tie man hopped out, followed by three heavily armed men in SWAT uniforms, their faces covered. Renato and I huddled against a wall, on the last steps of the stairs that led us up there—trying to hide.

  “Merda. We won’t be able to escape because of the helicopter,” Renato said.

  We surely wouldn’t. The soccer field seemed to be at the uppermost edge of the favela. Looking past the helicopter, I caught sight of the remains of Mata Atlântica, damp and leafy and tall, filtered through the wire fence mesh that encircled the field.

  The police walked sideways across the soccer field and gradually faded away from our sight. Renato leaned his head against the wall, his face in despair, he stretched his neck out to steal glimpses, hoping for hints of what could be our next steps. His injured shoulder looked swollen under the gauze dressing. Most of his upper arm had a purplish color to it, while the rest of his arm had gone limp.

  “I know that man in the suit,” I said.

  Renato struggled to keep a cough from coming out..

  “Yes... Officer Paulo Pinto. Seems like he is personally taking care of Gloria Santa.” He straightened his head and looked at me, his head swaying from side to side. “He already knows you’re here... We must find another way, Emily. We must find another shelter... I just hope they don´t pay my grandma a visit...” He pursed his lips and closed his eyes, weary.

  I slid against the wall to sit on my heels, trying to let my situation sink in. There had to be an option, one that didn’t include dying, being captured, or seeing innocent people harmed.